


Such A Pity

by orchidlocked



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Likes Nice Things, British countryside, Crowley Likes To Garden, Cunnilingus, F/F, Genderfluid Character, No Lesbians Die, Nosy Neighbors, Other, Post-World War II, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Supernatural Genderfluid Entities, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Zine: Love and Lust Through the Ages (Good Omens), seaside cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidlocked/pseuds/orchidlocked
Summary: It's 1945, and the long war is finally over. Ineffable wives Aziraphale and Crowley have decided to move from London to the countryside to spend a little time together. The seaside town is perfect, except for their busybody neighbors.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 23
Collections: Love and Lust Through the Ages Volume II





	Such A Pity

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my works for the awesome Love & Lust Through the Ages Part 2 zine :)

“Such a pity, innit?”

Crowley heard whispered variations of the phrase what felt like a dozen times a day. Most often when the demon headed into the city center proper for all the nice things Aziraphale liked; little cakes, fresh bread, fine meats and cheeses, and of course, wine.

“We can’t live here and never go to the market, Crowley,” Aziraphale said about a week after they’d arrived. “It’s already suspicious enough that we… well.” Crowley didn’t quite understand what Aziraphale meant, until she looked at the angel’s soft lips, then at her own reflection in the chipped octagonal mirror that hung next to the front door.

It was a few years after the war, and the immediate high of the ending of the brutal period had given way to a muted sadness that settled across the land. People were doing their best to carry on, and in a small cottage in a tiny seaside town, an angel and a demon had decided to move in together and take some time for themselves.

Crowley had often preferred oscillated between forms, presenting in various genders at different times depending upon the context. During the war, he’d been recruited for an op, and as he’d already made a name for himself as one Anthony J. Crowley, decided to present as a femme fatale named “Madame C.” The demon enjoyed the nylons, the skirts, the makeup, and most especially the perfume.

Crowley would never forget the first time she surprised Aziraphale in her current form; waltzing into the bookshop in a black velvet dress with a slit all the way up to the top of her thigh. The angel had been so startled, he’d nearly fallen off the creaky ladder. Crowley laughed until her sides hurt; but as usual, it was Aziraphale who’d have the last word.

They’d both been given a few years off, and the whispered promises of spending the time together slowly began to weave themselves into reality; Crowley paid for a lovely little seaside cottage in cash, hired movers for all that Aziraphale insisted was “essential,” and had it all set up and ready to go as soon as the angel had picked a date. Crowley was outside the bookshop in the Bentley, smoking and kicking pebbles off the sidewalk when she spotted the round-cheeked angel in full feminine form, ample bosom filling out a soft pink sweater and blonde curls cascading down to her shoulders.

“Mmmph,” Crowley muttered as her cigarette fell from her lips.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathily as she climbed into the Bentley, her rose and vanilla and sugar fragrance swirling around the inside of the car, finding its way into the ends of Crowley’s copper shoulder-length hair. Crowley leaned over and pulled the angel into a passionate kiss, smudging her rose-petal colored lipstick in the process.

Their journey to the cottage took far longer than expected.

* * *

Everything was perfect, except for what wasn’t, which was very little; Aziraphale wasn’t terribly fond of the fact that there were only three bakeries in town, and as the angel was now in a different form, she longed for London’s familiar upscale boutiques and justified occasions to break out her finest garments. Crowley teased Aziraphale about it, but made the trips into town and sent away for expensive things from London every so often. For the most part, they kept to themselves; after such a long war, there were fewer questions than Crowley expected about two women living together. Aziraphale and Crowley minded their business and gave a friendly wave to the neighbors every now and then. Everyone did the same, except for Agnes and Nancy.

Agnes and Nancy. What a pair. They regularly woke the neighborhood up on weekends by opening their windows and yelling to one another across the street instead of “going round for tea like a civilized person,” in Aziraphale’s words.

“Of course we had to pick the house right in the thick of the bloody busybodies,” Crowley’d snarled after her first run-in with the odd duo, whose entire basis of friendship seemed to consist of loudly complaining about everyone within earshot. Aziraphale never dwelled on anything they said; Crowley, on the other hand, filed away every snide remark and backhanded compliment. After four months at the cottage, Crowley had learned to let it slide. (She was, after all, in a much better frame of mind these days, what with being able to wake up next to Aziraphale every morning.) The only statement that managed to get under Crowley’s skin was, unfortunately, the most common one she heard.

“Such a pity,” they’d say, thinking Crowley or Aziraphale were somehow suffering without the presence of a man, assuming that the two were simply good friends rather than passionate lovers.

Aziraphale had tried everything short of a literal miracle to get the block busybodies to warm up to her and Crowley, but had failed. After being rejected over a plate of flawless lavender shortbread, the angel threw in the towel. Crowley was thrilled once Aziraphale quit her quest to make nice with Agnes and Nancy, and patted Aziraphale on the back and comforted her, while surreptitiously continuing to do everything in her power to intimidate the nosy duo. She switched out the cream-colored roses in the front with maroon ones so deep they were nearly black; she encouraged the ravens to stand guard on the fence. And to counteract the rumours that kept swirling around, Crowley started a whisper campaign of her own; spinning a fantastic story about how she ended up living with Aziraphale. The tall tale revolved around Crowley’s dearly departed beau, who had been the best of friends with “Zee’s” boyfriend before the war. The four of them had spent nearly every waking moment together before the men had ran off after V Day, leaving poor Madame C and Ms. Zee with no one but each other for company. Aziraphale wasn’t so fond of the dishonesty, but let it slide.

Crowley was out front, wrangling the roses into submission with a firm hand and a very sharp pair of snips when she heard the familiar phrase again, hissed from only a few feet away.

“Such a pity. No one to help with the garden.”

She looked up to see Agnes and Nancy returning from their daily walk to the corner and back. “Mind your bloody business,” Crowley muttered under her breath as she severed a particularly thorny branch with more enthusiasm than required. Crowley stood and shot Nancy a glare as she crossed the street and went into her home.

Crowley pointed a finger at the trembling rose bush. “Grow some bigger thorns.”

* * *

One summer night when the moon was high, Crowley was living her dream: her hands wrapped around Aziraphale’s hips, her face buried in Aziraphale’s thighs. She had lost track of how long she’d been licking and sucking and fingering Aziraphale to orgasm after orgasm. Crowley had crooked her fingers just so as she wrapped her lips around Aziraphale’s clit. The angel cried out in pleasure, so loudly that Crowley was momentarily startled. The demon started to pull away to see if Aziraphale was okay when she felt the angel’s hand on the back of her head.

And then there was a knock at the door, then two knocks, which then devolved into insistent pounding.

Aziraphale sat up so quickly she nearly knocked heads with Crowley. “What on Earth!”

The pounding continued. Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

“I can’t go to the door like this,” Crowley said with a shrug, grabbing a corner of the sheet and trying to mop the wetness off her face. Aziraphale sat up and took in the sight of Crowley, who was soaked all the way down to her chest with liquid that was… glowing?

“I’ll – I suppose – I will, I’ll go,” Aziraphale stammered, her face flushed. She tossed on a robe and headed downstairs, the pounding on the door growing more insistent with her every step. The angel threw open the door, expecting to see someone in dire need of help, but no. It was Agnes; behind her Aziraphale could see Nancy’s silhouette in the door across the street.

“It is half past one in the morning, what do you want?” Aziraphale asked exasperatedly.

Agnes’s face turned sour, and Aziraphale enjoyed the thrill of momentarily rendering her speechless. “Well – it’s just that – I heard one of yous in there screaming and I-“ Agnes tightened her robe, “-I just wanted to make sure no one had broken in or was getting beaten to death or-“

Aziraphale sighed. “We are fine, Agnes.”

“But you’re all red in the face and-“

“I was in the bath!” Aziraphale yelled as she closed the door on her nosy neighbour. Crowley, who had been valiantly silent for the past few minutes, cracked up against the door frame, laughing into her arm and slapping the wall. “Oh, and now this.”

“Oh, come on, Angel, it’s funny.” Crowley threw her hair back and ran her hand across her face. “Still damp,” she said with a devilish grin.

“I believe we were interrupted,” Aziraphale said as she took Crowley’s hand and led her back upstairs.

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley were still in the cottage as the warm days of summer waned; they were both well aware they could be recalled into service at any moment. They went to the beach, they walked into the center of town, Aziraphale learned to bake fluffy cakes and frosted tea biscuits, and Crowley continued coaxing the blood-red roses into a cascade. Everything continued on as it had, including Agnes and Nancy and their ever-watchful eyes. On one of the last nice Sundays of the year, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder with arms crossed and watched Crowley follow Aziraphale into the wrought iron table that stood in the front garden.

Nancy sighed. “It’s just such a pity.”

“A real shame.”

“And well. Look at the poor thing, now she’s walking like she’s got a limp.”

“Who is now?”

“The plump one.”

Agnes nodded. “Must be from where they were doing all that work in the garden this Saturday.”

“They’re watching us, Angel,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear.

“They’re always watching us.”

“Sure, but are they watching the way you’re walking around the garden this afternoon?” Crowley laughed, low and sly, and Aziraphale felt her face flush.

“I’m not sure it was really necessary for you to carry on like that.”

“Oh, hush, Angel, you’re the one who begged me to strap it on and-“

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale said, loudly enough to cause Agnes and Nancy to look up from their critique of the neighbors’ dahlia patch.

From across the street, Nancy tutted disapprovingly. “It’s just such a sorry situation. If the two of them had been able to find themselves some nice blokes they wouldn’t have to be working so at their age.”

“Exactly right,” Agnes said. “They could be just like us.”

“A couple of gal pals, spending the days away.”

“And the nights while the men are at the pub.”

“Best of friends,” Nancy said with a decisive nod.

“The best of friends,” Agnes agreed.


End file.
